


A Shadow's Hand

by ourgirlfriday



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Charles is a ghost, Ghost roommate, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, M/M, attempted humor, no on screen death, rushed ending, this was a WIP for years and I wanted to get it done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 07:54:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6230071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourgirlfriday/pseuds/ourgirlfriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was, Erik supposed, a rather unusual impulse purchase. Most of his spontaneous shopping skewed towards Doritos or new running shoes, rather than 72 room estates. Especially one with an in-home ghost.  What even is his life anymore?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shadow's Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Charles is a ghost before the story starts, so no on screen tragedy, unless you count Erik's co-workers. This is unbeta'd, and I own nothing. Just playing in the sandbox.

It was, Erik supposed, a rather unusual impulse purchase. Most of his spontaneous shopping skewed towards Doritos or new running shoes, rather than 72 room estates. At the very least, he was quite sure Azazel would never stop giving him shit, and that he wasn’t allowed to mock Frost’s Porsche collection ever again. He honestly wasn’t even looking to buy a house, let alone a giant, ostentatious mansion with grounds and an honest-to-god _bunker_. But nevertheless, when he saw the listing on Moira’s computer (if she didn’t want people snooping through her shit, she shouldn’t keep hiding the good coffee in her desk. It’s called logic), he felt like he needed to be there, like the house wanted him and his stuff under its expansive roof. 

He looked at the Precious Moments figures Moira had brought in to scare him and other would-be thieves off her territory. “So, is this a good idea, or weird Shining shit?” 

“Are you talking to Moira’s fucking dolls?” Logan popped his head around the doorway in irritation (not that he didn’t do most things in irritation. It was a major reason why he and Erik got on so well). “That’s weird, even for you.” 

“For christ’s sake, Lehnsherr, get out of my office,” Moira screamed as she shouldered Logan out of the way, brandishing her lunch bag like the world’s saddest cudgel. “For the last time, I don’t keep secret coffee caches at my desk.” Logan snorted as Erik suspiciously eyed the potted ficus near her window looking for any disturbances in the dirt. It would be a good hiding spot. He really wouldn’t put it past her. 

Still, he sent the listing to his printer before unfurling himself from under her desk, telling himself there was no harm in _looking_ at the place. One day and one frankly obscene sum of money later, he paused to wonder what the fuck he just did, but by then it was clearly too late. The papers were signed, the “for sale” sign was down, and he had already bought a lawn flamingo to irritate Emma when she came over. Azazel and Janos had already grudgingly agreed to help him move, and everyone knows that you can’t go back after that. And, as his mother reminded him when he called her later that night slightly out of breath (but not hyperventilating, no matter what anyone said), it was far from the worst decision he’d ever made. At least this, he reasoned, would build equity. 

And really, what could go wrong? 

*****  
“Goddammit,” Erik muttered to himself as he searched the kitchen for the coffee maker. He blocked out the noises of the house settling as he went through the cabinets in the pantry. He really wished that someone had warned him that one of the side effects of home ownership was apparently losing one’s fucking mind, because this was certainly not the first thing he had misplaced since the move. Keys were understandable (and really, they always turned up on the key hook. He was clearly more responsible than he gave himself credit for), and having all his socks unexpectedly turn up in the hamper was strange, although hardly the stuff of Unsolved Mysteries. The coffee maker was even possibly explainable, if he assumed he had just taken to tidying up when exhausted. 

What he couldn’t explain was the library. 

The library had been a fantastic, unexpected surprise. He of course knew there was a room designated as such upon closing, but he hadn’t known that said room would be furnished until he arrived. Granted, about 75% seemed to be devoted to scientific texts with multi-hyphenated, incomprehensible titles. The remaining 25% was still likely more than enough, not including what had to be the state’s largest collection of antique erotic fiction. 

But that was quite frankly beside the point, even if he did file that away as an ice breaker at dinner parties. The problem with the library, or with his brain, was that the books seemed to have minds of their own. He wasn’t so far gone as to think the books were talking to him, and considering the aforementioned antique erotic fiction section he was quite thankful for the radio silence on that end, but it seemed that whenever he went to re-shelve something (or just stare at them in all their leatherbound glory (or when he randomly pulled some from the shelf, hoping to find a secret passageway (not that he did that))), he stumbled upon volumes piled haphazardly on the floor or chairs or end tables that he knew for a fact he hadn’t touched. And more frustratingly, it wasn’t uncommon for him to put a book down for the night, only to find it in a completely different part of the house when he went to resume. And while it was quite possible he had set down a book and wondered off once or twice, it was far less likely that he would have set it down in one of the nondescript third floor bedrooms or on the drafty window seat in the parlor or under the piano he didn’t know he had. 

Or, apparently, in a kitchen cupboard. Perhaps he should look for the coffee maker in the library. It wouldn’t make any less sense than finding _The Mill on the Floss_ by his muffins. 

“You fucking thing. Where are you hiding?” He wiped his hands on his robe and hitched the belt of his bathrobe tighter against the draft, and made a note to have someone in to look at the insulation or windows or however the fuck you fought against that shit. “Fuck fucking fuckery fuck. I swear if you don’t come out I will crush you in my own two hands.” 

Huh. He didn’t normally talk to himself. He realized rather belatedly that he was nervous. Erik was never nervous. He was the bane of his office, and the most feared litigator in the state. Sean, one of the employees in the company mail room, had been known to bribe Azazel to bring Erik his mail rather than go into his office alone. Erik Lehnsherr did not get nervous. 

That didn’t stop the fine hairs on the back of his neck from standing, or his arms from breaking into goose pimples. Someone was watching him. Or, it felt like someone was watching him. No one was there, of course. He had the best security system available. No one was behind him. The light creaking noises were just…house noises. 

“AHA!” he shouted as he jerked around. Of course, nothing was there. 

Except, he noted with some unease, for the coffee maker sitting on the counter, looking for all the world as if it had been there all along. 

Fucking fuckery fuck. 

*****  
As odd as the book thing was, and despite the fact that Erik may or may not have developed a slight phobia with regards to his coffee maker, those weren’t the weirdest things. 

The weirdest thing was the boy. Or man, perhaps. Erik hadn’t gotten a good look at him, yet. The first time he thought he was seeing things, catching something out of the corner of his eye that was gone when he jerked his head for a better look. 

“Just a reflection,” he muttered to his toast. He didn’t question what it was a reflection _of_. Sometimes it’s best not to ask. 

He was so flummoxed that he didn’t notice pale face peering at him from the living room. 

The second time he saw the man (or boy, or other unidentified bipedal humanoid), there was no mistaking it. He had been on the grounds, surveying the layout, debating if he wanted to make any changes before the weather became less agreeable, when he noticed a figure in one of the third floor windows. He looked slight, although that could have been a product of the height and distance between them, and he looked pale. The only other thing he could say for sure from where he stood was that the …interloper was wearing a frankly unflattering yellow cardigan. 

Erik didn’t turn his head that time. But while Erik blinked, the man disappeared. He was certain of what he saw. But, he thought, aside from that and a few misplaced items (and nothing was _gone_ , not even any food), there was no evidence. It wouldn’t hurt, he thought, to wait for something more concrete before acting. 

The next time there was no getting around it. It was very difficult to ignore someone sitting in your chair, looking out your window, with what is probably your attractively pensive expression. 

Erik narrowed his eyes at the interloper’s brazenness. And fashion sense. That cardigan was probably a crime against humanity. Although his stomach lurched unpleasantly when he realized that, oh god, it was the same as before, and probably the time before that, and his squatter was so thin. 

He couldn’t call the police. Erik knew letting the interloper stay was a terrible idea, but sending him to jail for having nowhere else to go hardly seemed reasonable. He slipped out quietly. It seemed that he had errands to run.

*****  
The next morning, Erik was much louder than normal during his morning ablutions. Before he left for work, he made a sandwich and left it on the counter, next to a pile of new clothing. He had debated whether that was creepy or not, but decided that the squatter had already crossed the creepy line some time past. Non-creepiness was never an option.  
*****  
The sandwich and clothing were untouched when he came back. He frowned at them both as if they had gravely insulted his mother. 

Erik was not a patient man. He did not particularly like surprises, or mysteries, and surprise mysterious squatters were no exception, no matter how flippy their hair. Something had to give. Ground rules needed to be established. Bright yellow cardigans would be retired.  
He made his way to the library, intending to relax for a breath before starting his search. He was therefore surprised when he realized the squatter was also in the library, curled up on his sofa, reading a book propped on one of the end tables.  
It was the closest Erik had been to the stranger. His hair looked quite soft and his eyes were lovely, and this was not what he came here to do. Focus. He straightened his back, schooled his face into Very Serious expression no. 3, and cleared his throat.  
The man on his sofa gave no indication that he had heard. Bullshit. Subtlety was clearly off the menu. “What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?” 

The interloper jerked his head up at that, and stared at Erik with shocked, impossibly blue eyes, and really, Lehnsherr, get a hold of yourself, because this is really not the time or place for these observations. 

“Are…are you talking to me?” he whispered with a frankly unexpected English accent. Weren’t the English supposed to be polite? Granted, Erik was self-aware enough to know he was not up to date with the ins and outs of polite society, but he felt safe in assuming that trespassing and book…movery…was frowned upon. 

“Who the hell else would I be talking to? You’re the only one here” and yes, apparently Erik’s life had devolved into a bizarre _Taxi Driver_ reenactment troupe with the strange man sitting on his sofa. 

The interloper flushed and smiled. “You’ve seen _Taxi Driver_!” Erik was perilously close to gaping, and how did he lose control of the conversation already? Erik consoled himself with the knowledge that the interloper was clearly unhinged. No one was unmoved by Serious Expression no. 3. 

“Everyone’s seen _Taxi Driver_ ,” he grit out. “And that’s hardly the point. What –“

“I saw that movie too! Did you like it?” He really sounded far too delighted for someone who was being confronted for their misdeeds. “I didn’t! I should, I suppose, but I didn’t!” 

Clearly, he was dealing with a book mover and trespasser with atrocious taste in movies. Erik was pretty sure his eye was twitching. Frost would be disappointed that she had a contender for the ‘bane of his existence’ throne. His mother was right, he should have just called the police, fuzzy jumpers be damned. Erik stopped himself from grinding his teeth and leveled his Intimidating Glare, level 4 at the other man.

“That. Is. Not. The. Point. The point is. You. Are in. My house. Why are you in my house? And don’t pretend this is the first time – I’ve seen you. We’ve been in the same room and really at first I had to admire your chutzpah but good god, there is a limit, man.” Erik was breathing heavily and was somewhat surprised to note that he had crossed the room and was leaning (closer to lurking that he liked, to be honest) over the other man, hands gripping the back of the couch near the interloper’s arms. He distantly noted that the ever present draft was stronger in this part of the library.

The interloper just grinned his giant, shit-eating grin, like Erik was just the _best thing ever_. “About that. I am sorry, my friend.” Erik let out a dignified noise that was nowhere near squawking at the endearment. “I’m afraid I had no idea you could see me.”

“Right. You thought you were invisible. Clearly the logical assumption. How silly of me to have missed that.”

“Well, yes, when you say it like _that_ it sounds rather foolish, but in my defense –“

“Oh, this should be good.” 

“-in my defense,” the interloper continued testily, “it wasn’t an unfair assumption.” Erik looked at the man. The man looked at Erik. Erik continued looking at the man. The man continued looking at Erik. 

“I’m sorry, am I being unreasonable in expecting more to that story?” 

“Well, strictly speaking, it was more of a statement than a story-“

“Again. Not. The. Point. Why exactly did you think-“

“Because,” the interloper interrupted, “because no one else can.” The man (up close he looked so young and ok Lehnsherr, it’s maybe time to back off a little) looked down at his hands and his mouth crumpled. “It’s been a long time since anyone saw me. Or spoke to me. I’m not sure how to explain.” Erik backed off, settled himself on the other end of the couch.  
“I’ve got time.” The stranger worried his lip and looked up at Erik before nodding.  
“Maybe it doesn’t need to be so difficult. Hello, I’m Charles Xavier. I’m your resident ghost.”  
*****  


“You’re a ghost. Right. Of course.” Erik scrubbed a hand down his face. “An invisible ghost that moves my shit and assaults my eyes with terrible fashion.”

The squatter...ghost...Charles looked offended and opened his mouth to say something equally bizarre, Erik was sure, but he was on a roll and he’d be damned if he ceded it before he made his point. The fact that he didn’t have a point yet was immaterial. It was the principle of the thing. “No,” he continued, “no, kid, I get to talk right now. My house, my rules.” And now he was turning into his mother. Fantastic. 

“Listen, Charles. I don’t want to call the cops. Do you have a friend, or family, or a doctor we can contact?” 

Charles bit his lip (don’t stare, Lehnsherr, you’re going to a special hell for this) and shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve lost contact with everyone of my acquaintance. It’s an unfortunate side effect of, well, death.” Erik snorted and stood, began pacing the length of the room.

“You’re not a ghost,” he said sharply, and how was that actually a statement he actually had to say out loud to another person in all seriousness? How was that his life? Wasn’t an eccentric squatter bizarre enough? Shit. He made a note to never let Moira hear about this, as her smug gloating about consequences and negative karma and coffee appropriation might actually make his ears bleed and melt his brain. He’d rather listen to Quested and Frost discuss their hair regimens again, and that ranked under “brush up on the history of crop rotation” and “commit self-immolation” on the List of Things Erik Would Rather Be Doing at this Precise Moment in Time. (This was a real list. It had come in handy on more than one occasion. When it comes to matters of spite, Erik liked to be prepared.) “Ghosts don’t exist. You exist. Ergo, not a ghost.”

“I suppose hoping this might be simple _was_ overly wishful on my part,” Charles sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to convince you. I lived, and I died, and I’m still here, in whatever form this is.” Charles shifted forward and looked at Erik very seriously. “Touch me.” 

Erik was not overly talkative by nature, but nevertheless it was rare for him to be struck speechless. Still, looking at Charles’ earnest expression, he can’t think of anything to say beyond a very flat “what.”

“You don’t believe me, I see. I cannot blame you for that, but nonetheless I’m afraid it’s quite true. This is the best way I can think of to make you understand.” And oh god talk like that was not helping with regard to going to a very special hell. 

Erik narrowed his eyes and poked Charles in the shoulder. Or, rather, he meant to. He hadn’t expected his finger to pass through Charles’ arm, or the resulting numb cold that climbed his hand. Everything began to seem muffled and strange, like he was looking at the world from underwater. His vision tunneled and his lungs burned, and he couldn’t move away. He distantly noted that Charles was speaking to him, frantic and urgent. The cold intensified as the ghost moved to clasp his shoulders and Erik couldn’t stop himself from groaning as incorporeal hands passed through him. 

Then, nothing.  
*****  
When he came to, the first thing he noticed was that he felt like shit. He was freezing, and he felt like he had been run over by a particularly unfriendly bulldozer. After a moment of cataloguing his various pains and woes, he realized was lying on the library floor covered in a blanket from the hall closet. And that he was being monitored by a ghost perched on the chair halfway across the room. Well, that shot his vague hope that he had just dipped too far into Janos’ moonshine again. Erik grimaced as he propped himself up on his elbows, and glared at said ghost or man or whatever – semantics was not high on Erik’s list of priorities at the moment. Charles was all but wringing his hands, and looked equal parts worried and nauseous. 

“Oh Erik, I am so very sorry. I had no idea. How are you?” he babbled, pulling a grimace which Erik took to mean _great question, captain obvious_. “Can I get you anything?” and Erik felt his ire fading at Charles’ distress. 

Well, it was a relief, he supposed, that the resident ghost wasn’t _actively_ trying to kill him. And it was hard to argue against the ‘ghost theory’ after...whatever the hell _that_ was. 

“You’re a ghost.”

“Yes. Would you like tea? You’d have to make it yourself, I’m afraid. I seem to have a chilling effect. Which you noticed. Clearly.”

“You’re actually a ghost.” Erik felt a bit like the bottom dropped out of his world. Which was probably to be expected, considering that the bottom pretty much dropped out of his world. “How are you a ghost? _Why_ are you a ghost?”

Charles shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know. As I told you, I lived, then I died, and now here I am. I don’t know anything more than that.” 

“You’re a ghost. You’re – how can you be so _calm_ about this?” because really, how could he? Erik was sure he would have been enraged in Charles’ place. Charles just laughed sadly. 

“Oh, Erik. I’ve had time to adjust. There isn’t much choice, when you only have yourself for company.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I try. From what I understand, a little ominousness is admirable in residential ghosts.” Erik had to give points for effort trying to lighten the mood, but he wasn’t ready to give up the topic just yet. 

“You said I was the first person who could see you. Charles. How long have you been here?” 

“Well, I grew up here, so virtually all my life.” Erik adopted Irritated Scowl number 2. Charles huffed, then murmured “Ten years. I died ten years ago.” He spoke evenly, lightly, but was hunched in on himself, and he looked so terribly, terribly sad. 

Fuck. Erik tried to imagine what it might be like to spend ten years alone, unable to communicate with anyone. Well, it didn’t sound so bad, but he did recognize that most people didn’t dislike other people as much as he did. He tried to think of something appropriate to say, but he was pretty sure that literally no etiquette book in the world covered “Things to say to a ghost upon hearing the length of their haunting.” Emily Post was an obviously an asshole. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Charles shrugged and focused on the pattern in the carpeting. He didn’t say anything, and Erik didn’t push. They sat that way, in the library, in comfortable silence, for a long time. 

*****  
Erik stumbled into the kitchen the next morning, still half-asleep (and rather unhappy with the reminder that he wasn’t twenty any more, and couldn’t pull all-nighters without suffering the next day), sore from ghostly misadventures and sleeping on the floor, and with the beginnings of what he suspected might be a terribly unpleasant headache. It was surprising, then, that despite everything, he found he felt...good. He still had to deal with co-workers, and honestly, the Charles situation just raised far more questions than it answered, but all in all he felt very good. It was unexpected. Home ownership must agree with him – he didn’t have to depend on the whims of his landlord should anything terrible occur, and it was a relief to not be hemmed in and crowded by other residents. 

It was much quieter at his new home (estate. An actual fucking estate), for one thing. Charles was the only other person – entity – whatever – for miles, and Erik had come to the decision that having a ghost as a roommate outstripped living with a human by a hundredfold. Charles was tidy, he didn’t steal Erik’s leftover pizza, and although he seemed excited and chatty, he was by no means unpleasant. Further, Erik could hardly fault him for being excited to have his first conversations in ten years. 

The ghost in question was sitting at the table, reading one of the many scientific texts scattered throughout the house. He smiled brightly when he noticed Erik make a bee-line to the coffee maker (which was, wonder of wonders, sitting exactly where it was supposed to be). Charles’ eyes followed him across the room, and said “I thought I’d stop trying to put that away.” 

Eric looked over his shoulder as he ground the beans. “So that was you? I assumed moving had killed my brain. Why on earth were you hiding my appliances?” He tried to sound cross, but suspected he came across as confused and fuzzy. Charles picked up on that, judging by his quickly hidden bitten-off grin. 

“I wasn’t trying to hide it. I was trying to put it back where it’s supposed to go.”

“It goes on the counter. That’s where it goes. No movement required.” 

“Well, yes, I know that _now_. I had no idea it was so egregious a sin to try and be a bit helpful” Erik narrowed his eyes, thinking over the oddities of the past few weeks, and he probably should have made these connections the previous evening. In his defense, it had been a hectic day. He started laughing, as much at himself as at Charles’ bloody _prim_ tone as and the fact that his ghost had apparently been cleaning up after him. Charles looked at him in surprise, mouth parted, eyes unreadable. After a beat, he joined in, gesturing at himself and Erik as if to say _lord, look at how ridiculous we two are_. 

“So,” Charles said after he had regained composure (although he was still flushed and his eyes were so bright and are you lusting after a _ghost_ do occur.”

Erik hummed in assent as he down, watching the other from the corner of his eye, and enjoying the companionable silence that grew between them. All in all, home ownership agreed with him pretty well. 

******  
His good mood lasted, somewhat predictably, until he reached the office.

“I hear you have a squatter, Lehnsherr,” Logan called as he entered the conference room. 

“A squatter? Really? Oh god, have you called the cops?” Moira looked terribly concerned. Emma rolled her eyes.

“What? No.” 

“Oh god, you killed him, didn’t you?” 

Erik glared at her before returning his attention to the document in front of him. 

“Of course not,” he muttered. He turned to Logan and asked “And where did you even hear that?”

Logan glared at him as he grabbed a coffee mug. “Talked to your mom yesterday.” 

“A squatter? So, you maimed him then? Do you have him tied up in your basement, under an acid drip, bound in the entrails of his sons?” Azazel contributed with an unseemly amount of interest.

“Who let him read Norse mythology?” Emma snapped from the end of the table, where she was presumably busy pretending that none of the rest of them existed. 

“Why were you talking to my mom?” 

“It was his birthday,” Moira answered, using her _you’re being exceptionally dim-witted this morning_ voice. 

“So?”

“Your mom always calls us on our birthdays.” 

Erik manfully resisted the urge to hit his head on the conference table. He was determined not to break first, and Emma actually looked like she was perilously close to snapping already. 

“ _Not on your life, Lehnsherr_ ” she whispered, and goddammit it was creepy when she did that. 

“She mentioned that you saw someone hanging around.” Logan continued as he pulled out the chair next to Moira. 

“Well, I was wrong.” The conference room went silent as everyone turned to him, gaping (except Emma, who was just smug at him). “What?”

“Oh god, the squatter killed Erik. And took his place. And got plastic surgery to look like him.” Azazel deadpanned.

“Whatever,” Logan muttered as he opened his satchel. “Whoever he is, he’s still a dick.”

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. His pain was mitigated somewhat by the sound of Emma banging her head on the table in the background.  
*****

By the end of the day, rumor of Erik’s doppelgangery had spread through the firm like stupid, stupid wildfire. By the time he got back to his (estate!) house, he had moved beyond wanting to sleep forever to wanting to bribe Charles to mercy kill him (not that he would mention it, as he wasn’t quite sure if talking about death to a ghost was impolite. His grudgematch against Emily Post was growing stronger by the day). 

Nevertheless, he found himself taking Kurt Vonnegut’s advice, and when Charles looked up at him as he entered the door, he thought, _well, if this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is._  
*****

“You know,” Charles said that evening as he sat as close to Erik as he dared, “you should go out sometime. Meet people.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Erik responded in the most Erik voice he could muster, “Have you been huffing ghost paint?”

“Be serious, Erik.”

“I am serious. I’m not the one saying stupid things. I hate people. Why would I want to meet them? That defeats the purpose of everything I aspire to be.”

“I just, I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay here, because I can’t go out. I don’t want you to be lonely.” Charles was picking an errant string at his ghost cardigan, which was odd and opened up some strange questions about the workmanship of incorporeal clothing. He looked fairly miserable, and if Erik were a man who didn’t learn from his mistakes, he’d have risked a back pat or two. 

“Christ, Charles,” Erik groused. “I’m not lonely. We spend time together all the time!”

“But I’m not really like other people you could be around, Erik.” Charles said, looking for all the world like a tiny raincloud was hanging over his head. “Your mother said you hardly talk to anyone at work, and didn’t wish Logan a happy birthday.“

“How the hell are you talking to my mother? And of course you’re different. I actually like spending time with you!” Well, shit. There go thirty-some years of avoiding emotional confessions, right out the window. Still, Erik thought, it might be worth it by the way Charles’ ears went pink and his sad ghost frown melted into a soppy ghost smile. If it wouldn’t have made him swoon, he’d have risked a kiss, probably. 

Well. That was a surprise. 

“You mother calls every other week, she’s been planning your garden and needs to know what’s traditionally done well here.” Charles murmured with a soft smile. “And I like spending time with you, too.”

“Well, good, then.” Erik said, shifting slightly closer. “I’m glad that’s settled.” It was good, and if the rest of his life could be like this moment, it wouldn’t be so bad even with his incompetent underlings.

**Author's Note:**

> Erik goes on to foster a motely crew of mutant children, who all see Charles, and have a disgusting happy family and raise corgis, and Raven comes back to visit and sees Charles and also moves in, and Eriks mom plants the garden and it is beautiful until the corgis get a hold of it. All of the coworkers meet Charles and frankly never expected Erik to bond with anything so the fact that he's a ghost isn't too shocking. They live happily ever after and then Charles and Erik have ghost adventures and solve crimes together, or do whatever you like best. 
> 
> The End!
> 
> _______________________________
> 
> Sorry this is so rushed. I am trying to clear up some WIPs that have been hanging over me like a dead albatross.


End file.
